I just told her the other day –
that I no longer had time to write, that the moments
would just have to “hit me.”
And, there it was, there
flung over the concrete median
blood dripping down his wedding ring finger
onto the holiday-trafficked highway
an inverted car and smoke as his backdrop.
While driving and sobbing to my mom over Bluetooth,
I was reminded of the wreck that brought me
straight home to you, of forgotten errands,
of the dead man, halfway out of a car’s window
of how you greeted me from the garage
and held me on the weight bench
you were sweeping around.
Of the boy, slung –
to the pavement of the intersection,
immediately outside of art class.
From my rearview mirror, the worst part
was watching a father explain
what happened to his small son.
The man rolled his hand over,